They sat in silence, three people around the chabudai.

Only the gentle sipping of tea and the faint rustling of the leaves in the far distance.

No one spoke as eyes met eyes over rims of teacups, as a moustache quivered and a hand rose unconsciously to stroke at untrimmed beard.

Their third companion took another sip of tea.

And they sat there in silence, drinking, just drinking till the sun set.

Drinking in the disappointment heavy in the air.

"You were like sons to me," he says finally.

The other two try futilely to hide the spluttering and much shaking of teacups.

"Eh?" Kyouraku manages.

Ukitake blinks.

"You were like sons to me," Yamamoto says, "But perhaps you are more like brothers than you were sons."

It ends there, even as the sun merely begins its slow descent into darkness.

And they drink, drink in silence till sunset.

The air sinks, sinks and spreads like an ink drop in water.

"But brothers are sons," Kyouraku says the next day.

"And brothers were always sons before they are brothers," Ukitake completes.

That night, they drink sake.